


Undercover

by FrostedFlame (PinkOrchid)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Masturbation, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-09-09
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4631058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkOrchid/pseuds/FrostedFlame
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are away on a case - what a shame there is only one bed! Sherlock's transport for once just refuses to be ignored. Unusual events ensue...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bump in the Night

**Author's Note:**

> Well - this was inspired by another work of fiction on here, Perpetual Motion by Fay (Citrine). That work also had Sherlock in a shared bed with his hand favourably occupied while John lay beside him. That fiction went a different direction, but the image stayed so I decided to run with it..

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh God, he's - no, he's not - is he?

The room was heavy with darkness as John struggled up through layers of consciousness, warm and hazy with sleep. He surfaced gradually, needing a few seconds to remember where he was as he vaguely wondered what had woken him. His mind slowly recalled the sudden trip, the hotel room, the only-one-bed-shared-with-Sherlock, the falling asleep after a long night on the case. Suddenly, John froze. What was that? There it was again. The bed was _moving._ What? Oh. OH!

John's whole being narrowed with laser accuracy to the suspiciously _familiar_ motion beside him. It was unmistakably the up-down rhythm of a man who was -  no, no. NO. It couldn't be!  John almost forgot to breathe. A hot wave flushed up from deep within his groin. This was impossible. This literally couldn't be happening. As far as he knew, Sherlock didn't even  _do_ that. Well - the movements were speeding up, Oh God. He obviously  _did_. And in this case, he did - was doing - while in bed with his flatmate lying unconscious beside him! The bed was shaking silently with the movements. There was no doubt about it. He was in lying beside a most definitely masturbating Sherlock!

What should he do? God - if he moved now, Sherlock would know he was awake. Oh, the embarrassment of it. Hot colour flooded John's cheeks. The smell of _Sherlock_ , of Sherlock's arousal, was all around him. That Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, could even engage in the act, could  _jerk off_ like any other man - it blew John's mind entirely! The soft slide of skin on skin was clearly audible and wickedly arousing to his ears. Jesus! The hot spike of _want-need-want_  rushed through him. He almost groaned out loud at the overwhelming desire that made his toes curl and would have weakened his knees, had he actually been standing up. A cold sweat washed over him. He just couldn't move, it felt like he was having a full blown out-of-body experience. He - but he couldn't lie here and witness, well,  _that,_ could he? _Oh the temptation!_ But he'd never be able to look Sherlock in the face if he pretended to be asleep while his secret-crush flatmate, well, _got off_ beside him. Oh God. What should he do?

John tried desperately not to move, but couldn't help stiffening in horror as the hot wet wave of his own reaction reached his cock. It filled rapidly, thickening and twitching and most definitely unambiguous in its feelings towards proceedings. John may be having a crisis of conscience, but his nether regions most definitely  _wanted._ He tried. He really tried.  _Just ignore it, just ignore it. Think of something horrid, body parts and oozing sores. Oh God, oh God. Ignore it._ But then Sherlock shifted, his breathing stuttered, and he let out the most delicious  _groan_ and John was lost, he couldn't help it, his breath hitched, his body gave a twitch that was half way to a shudder, and instantly the frantic movements beside him stopped..

***

Earlier that evening...

John had been strolling back to Baker Street after a long shift at the clinic when his phone dinged with an incoming message. He had figured it could really only be from a certain consulting detective. By the time he had reached into his pocket to pull out his phone, it had already buzzed twice more. Yes, definitely Sherlock, then. His genius flatmate was the only person who routinely subjected John to this kind of impatient serial texting. 

_\- Hurry back John, there's a case. Double homicide, just outside Southampton. - SH_

and then:

_\- Need to pack for the weekend, might take a few days. We're booked on the 19:05. -SH_

followed by:

_\- John! Where are my blue socks? What have you done with them? -SH_

John was only 5 minutes from the flat, so he didn't bother typing a reply, but he did hurry his pace. Wouldn't do to keep Sherlock waiting.  

"Ah, John, there you are," his flatmate said, as he entered. "Why are my blue socks missing? And do hurry up, we'll miss the train if you don't get a move on!" John sighed as he retrieved the socks (silk-cashmere blend, very posh) from the clean-laundry pile and threw them at Sherlock's head as he moved towards the stairs to his room. "Do your own laundry, you git!" he growled (but without any real heat in his tone) as he marched upstairs to hastily pack his overnight bag. It didn't take long, as an ex-soldier, John was always just minutes from being battle-ready. The compact army doctor allowed a frisson of anticipation to build, as he snapped his bag closed. 

In surprisingly short order, he and Sherlock were seated in the back of a taxi and en route to Waterloo station. John delighted in the excitement of it, the thrill of the chase singing in his veins. He couldn't help sneaking sly glances at the man beside him, thankful that the man seemed buried in his phone and oblivious to the Captain's attentions. _God but he's gorgeous,_ thought John, feeling the familiar  _want_ rise within his gut. _Look away, Watson, you fool_ , he admonished.  _He's not interested in anything you have to offer in that respect._   But God, he wished. He _wanted_. Never mind - this, right here, this was enough for the ex-soldier. This madcap chase through the night in taxis and trains, tumbling headlong into trouble in the wake of a swirling great-coat and a mop of dark, unruly curls. 

***

Sherlock sat opposite him on the train, which was both good and bad. Bad because it robbed John of the feeling of a long warm line of lean consulting detective pressed along his side, from shoulder to knee. But good because it meant being able to watch his friend's face without being obvious, and left delicious possibilities in the tangling of limbs underneath the formica table stretched between them. Sure enough, Sherlock was engrossed in his 'research' and barely lifted his head from his phone for the duration, giving John ample time to map the contours of that damnably delightful face. Yes, safe to say, John was more than a little attracted to his best friend. He had long since stopped trying to deny it - at least to himself. Of course, he could never tell Sherlock, no, that would most definitely be a mistake of the highest order. Mister 'married to his work' found the very idea of sentiment abhorrent, never mind his disregard, perhaps even disdain, for anything as mundane as  _sex_. Oh no. John would die before he would expose himself to the ridicule and disgust that would be sure to follow any revelation of his feelings. He would lose the best friend he ever had, and - that just was unacceptable. He simply could  _not_ lose Sherlock again. Once had almost killed him. Once had been so very more than enough. 

If John had not been so concerned with hiding his admiring glances from his best friend, he might have noticed said best friend also shooting strange looks in his own direction. Sure enough, whenever the Doctor's eyes were turned away, the great consulting detective would raise his steel grey eyes and allow his gaze to cross his friend's face like a caress. And so the train travelled ever southwards, its rattling accompanying the intimate dance backwards and forwards of grey and blue, ice and fire.  

***

"What do you mean, there was a mistake with the booking?" John's face was turning a very interesting - but slightly alarming - shade of puce. "John, calm down," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes and affecting a great air of disdain (while secretly his heart was hammering with something much more uncomfortable, something furtive and warm and  - oh, this was intolerable and brilliant all at once). "It's not like we haven't had to share before, and you were in much closer quarters in the army, for goodness sake". Turning to the rather flustered receptionist, he held out his hand for the key cards. "We'll take it."

***

All through the chase that followed, John both dreaded and delighted in the thought of being so close to Sherlock that night. Of course, the great git would probably insist on staying up all night - at least there was no violin in Southampton - or sit awkwardly in an armchair. And even if he did go to bed, he'd probably lie there rigid as a board and as far away from John as humanly possible. It was going to be awkward and lovely in equal measures and John hated this, hated that he so-nearly had what he so desperately needed. And yet it was as far away as ever, like the peak of Kilamanjaro floating high above him, alluringly _there_ but far away and capped in ice.

For his part, Sherlock fought to swallow down the strange feeling of apprehension at the thought of their sleeping arrangements.  _Ridiculous_ , he thought,  _You've slept in the same bed as John before. Do NOT start getting ideas now._ And yet, the image persisted, burned into his retinas, of a sleep-soft John lying right-there one pillow over, so close that Sherlock swore he could almost feel the heat radiating from that marvellous, well-toned body. Damn his imagination. It was going to be a long night, and this kind of speculation would only make it longer. _Dear God, why did he have to torture himself so?!_

***

They got a lead on the case at some point that night, one of the suspects they needed to find was due to be in a particular bar that evening - a gay bar. It wasn't the first time their crime-fighting had lead them to this kind of venue, so John knew the score without Sherlock having to so much as roll his eyes at John's apparel. He removed his jumper and his check shirt - both wonderfully soft and comfortable, but in no way suitable for a club - stripping down to his his white, fairly tight and mercifully clean tee-shirt-under-shirt instead. _Such a shame John insisted on all those layers_ , Sherlock thought, not for the first time, as the noticed the tight tee-shirt moulding itself to John's lean muscles and hugging them salaciously, leaving _very_ little to the imagination. Sherlock found it mouth-watering. He turned away so that he didn't have to see.  _  
_

Sherlock of course didn't have to change a thing. John wondered what that meant, that Sherlock dressed as if always 5 minutes away from a club or a wedding, either or both at a pinch. _The man is so stylish it should be a sin,_ John thought, licking his lips at the way the tight shirt hugged his body, begging for the buttons to be seductively slipped apart. _No, no. Can't go there. Right. Let's find this suspect._  

***

Back in the darkened room, John thought for a minute that Sherlock must be able to hear his frantically beating heart. He was practically vibrating with the force of it. The silence stretched between them, an appalling or perhaps appalled thing. Well, this was awkward. He had to say something. He forced out a trembling "Sherlock?" There was no answer save the heavy breathing of a man obviously struggling for control. He tried again. "Sherlock - are you...?" There was a pause, followed by a tensely hissed "Yes John" But the mixture of fury and dry sarcasm in Sherlock's tone was undermined by the still-erratic breathing as he continued with a muttered "How very observant." 

John couldn't see past his own nose in the unlit room, but he could imagine Sherlock, lying there, blinking in mortification, arm frozen in place, struggling to rein himself in. He knew Sherlock, knew that for all his wilful ignorance of social norms, that this, this of all things, would embarrass and upset him. He prided himself on his absolute control of his transport. How desperate must he have been to have indulged _that_ in John's company. That of all things, the ultimate weakness, the one thing that set him apart from other men. Sherlock Holmes was above desire. But perhaps - perhaps he was not so different from other men, after all. John tamped down his own, rather heated, desire. He swallowed as he reached past his own embarrassment to attempt to reassure his obviously uncomfortable friend. 

"It's alright, Sherlock. It's.... fine. All fine. It's probably just the adrenaline, you know? Does funny things to a bloke. I get it."  That's right. Adrenaline. He could go with that.  

***

Sherlock groaned internally. How embarrassing. Adrenaline. Yes that was undoubtedly a factor. But Sherlock knew it was not just the thrill of the chase that had gotten him so - riled up. It almost never happened. But oh God, the evening had been such torture. John, all tightly wrapped and coiled strength, moving like a thing of danger, finally unwrapped from those god-awful layers. John dancing and moving his head just  _so_ and letting his eyes rove flirtatiously and - just - it was so easy to imagine that he was some stranger in a bar, some stranger who would welcome Sherlock's advances, who would take his hand on the dance floor and pull him into a slow seductive  _grind_. And then - there would be lips and hands on his heated skin and it would be everything, everything, and they would each fall into the other and- oh but this was just a case. John was here undercover. John would never look at him like that, with those eyes. Would never normally reach for him on the dance floor, leaning in. Would never run his lips over Sherlock's neck like that, oh that. Yes! That! And whisper in his ear, breath hot and horribly arousing, only the words, the words were all wrong! "I think that's him, by the fire escape," John had whispered. "I think he is watching the man with the silver shirt, to your left."

So Sherlock had had to shift to subtly adjust himself and move his attention to the suspect instead, and they had ended up in a crazy chase across the rooftops with John, always John, right behind him and only an arm's width away. But it may as well have been a mile, for Sherlock had no excuse to touch him any more. Sherlock's arousal had been brutal and unrelenting. It had followed him to the hotel room as they flopped down on the bed - the same bed, the same covers, just _there_. And John, beautiful John had stripped so unselfconsciously to that damned tight tee-shirt and just his pants, oh Sherlock had to look away. It was not  _fair._ And had peeled off his creased suit and slipped under the covers in just his own pants, moving fast and with his back to John so that the other man might not see the persistent erection that he had been plagued with all night. 

As John's breathing quickly evened out to softness, Sherlock briefly thought about putting back on his clothes and leaving, walking around for the night. It wouldn't be the first time he had denied his body sleep. But oh, how could he forego the delightful feeling of John at his back, soft and warm and - a man could pretend - willing? His heart, his heart was so full of this man. No. He couldn't leave. He would take what he could get. Even if it was an exquisite brand of torture. So near. So far. So warm. 

   
Sherlock's traitorous fingers moved of their own accord. They inched steadily southwards, leaving a trail of fire across his stomach, his breath hitching to the beat of the the yes-no-yes-no battle in his head, as his fingertips wound their way so slowly towards the aching hardness currently trapped inside his pants.

*** 


	2. For the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Under cover of darkness..

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter left.. thought it better to post this now, even if short, than delay to wait for the next bit..

John's earnest, comforting, I'm-a-doctor-I've-seen-it-all-before voice washed over Sherlock with unexpected kindness. "It's probably just the adrenaline, you know?" his friend offered. "Does funny things to a bloke."

Sherlock was never more thankful for the cover of darkness than he was in this moment. He was acutely aware of the state he was in, a state he would rather die than be caught in normally. He was flushed and covered in a light sheen of sweat and his limbs were trembling with the force of his still-aching need, his cheeks aflame in an agony of embarrassment. He said nothing at all for several minutes (dimly noting that even then, his arousal had not diminished). Finally he moved his lips to do something, anything to break the silence between them. This was most definitely not-good. What must John _think_ of him?

"I'm.. I'm sorry John." Another pause. "This - this normally doesn't happen, I can usually ignore it.. I - I thought you were asleep, you're usually quite difficult to wake once you go to sleep. I was just so - so.. " and his voice trailed off as he swallowed something down, something bitter and dark and despairing. 

John felt his way in the dark, conscious of how very important it was to tread carefully here. The wrong word, the vaguest mis-step could shatter their easy comfort like glass on jagged rocks. He paused, caught between a wish to flee and never mention this again, and an equally strong desire to - to join in? Oh. Right. No - that wouldn't be at all helpful. Better use his words. When he spoke, his voice was soft and low, almost soothing, in tune with the intimacy of the darkened room and the nature of the act he had just interrupted. "Look, I said it's ok Sherlock and I meant it. This is - it's perfectly normal. And yes, I am usually quite hard to wake, you weren't to know I'd hear you."

He took a breath, waiting for Sherlock to speak again, aware that in spite of his words, the tension had not dissipated. After a moment filled only with a very uncomfortable silence he softly whispered "Sherlock?" His only response was a quiet humm of acknowledgement. "Are you still.. you know...?" There was another pause and then a whispered, urgent, maybe even anguished "Yes!" John waited. Nothing more was forthcoming. So he ventured a suggestion. "Ok - well, it can't be comfortable. Why don't you.. you know - in the bathroom? I won't listen!"

Sherlock shuddered beside him. They just could not be discussing this, could they? But John, patient, kind John was waiting for his answer. God - this couldn't get any worse, could it? "Thank you for your concern, John. But - it won't work. The bathroom is tiny, I -" Oh God, how to explain this? - "I generally find I need to be in a certain _position_ for this to work." There was no answer from John's side of the bed, he was just going to have to say it, wasn't he? "I find I need to be lying down, actually."  _Don't ask, don't ask me why,_ he thought, frantically. 

"Really?" _John sounded - he sounded interested. Could he - no - it was probably just medical curiosity._

"Well. I ahh, I find I need a certain kind of" and here, his voice dipped and cracked a little before he could say the words, "well, stimulation to complete, ahh, the act. You know, prostate." Yet more silence. He huffed, irritation rising. Really, how could a Doctor be so obtuse! "It can be, well, difficult to reach, umm, if I am standing or sitting. It works best lying down!" That's it - he was officially dying of mortification, right now. On this damned hotel bed in this soon-to-be-deleted town. 

John was silent for a beat or two while he absorbed this very interesting fact about his heretofore presumed-non-sexual demi-god of a flatmate. "Ok - then how about I go for a walk, you know, for say half an hour? Find an all-night cafe? Or just walk about? Give you time to.. finish?"

Sherlock sighed, more than a little frustrated, his voice scathing. "Don't be an idiot John, how could I relax knowing that you're out walking in a strange city at some ungodly hour just because your flatmate can't - ahh - control his _urges_. Besides - it's freezing out there. No. Thanks - but no. I'll just - put up with it. It'll go away. Eventually. I'll just - I'll just think of something unpleasant for a while." He swallowed. Oh God, this was torture! _All_ he wanted was to resume the slow steady pull of his right hand. He had been so close! He ached for it! 

"Good luck with that," John said, knowing how little use waiting it out was going to be in his own case, he was as hard as nails himself here, though thankfully Sherlock did not seem to be aware of that. "Think of something unappealing, then. What about - Mycroft - in a thong with his arse hanging out?" Beside him Sherlock shuddered, but not, interestingly enough, with horror. _What_? thought John. "God, don't say that word, John," Sherlock pleaded, with a deep baritone groan. "What word? _Mycroft_?" John asked, beginning to worry slightly. "No - _arse!_ " whispered Sherlock urgently, "it's really  _not_ helping matters!" And it wasn't, not when spoken in John's voice, so low, so intimate, so  _very_ close to his ear.

Oh.  _OH!_ "Ah. So you  _are_ then," John said, before he had analysed his own words, before he had time to engage his filter. _Oh God_ , he thought, _I'm in a room, no- in a BED, beside a man who is undeniably aroused - and I'm harder than I've been in weeks - and I'm seriously asking about his sexual orientation!? Now?_   He was pretty sure this was a step too far, even if he  _had_ found the man frantically wanking in bed beside him. Some things were not - seemly - to just up and ask. 

"So I am - _what_ , John?" asked Sherlock, sounding vaguely perplexed. "Umm,  _Gay_ ," John muttered, groaning internally at the very strained silence that followed. _Uh-oh_ , he thought. _Here we go!_

But then, in a subdued tone, Sherlock began to answer. "I - I don't really - I mean, I don't _do_ that kind of thing. Frankly, I have little experience with either gender. I thought you already knew that, John!" "Not exactly," John managed to reply, aiming for nonchalant but probably failing miserably to hide his suddenly voracious interest. Sherlock gulped, then continued in some trepidation. "I mean, I have always known  _you_ are straight, John, but - I hope - I hope it wouldn't be an issue if I were, well - _not quite_. At least in theory. I would hope it wouldn't - matter."

John's heart sank.  _Oh Sherlock!_ "Of _course_ it wouldn't matter, Sherlock! Whatever way you are - it's - it's fine. You know that. Or if you don't - you really should!"

Silence descended again, both men's attention fixed firmly on the one thing they were trying to ignore - namely, Sherlock's rock-hard erection straining for the attention it so hotly desired. The tension ratcheted up a few notches. It was almost unbearable. John shifted slightly. God, Sherlock was right there. Now that John's eyes had adjusted to the gloom, he could see the outline through the blankets, that stiff, proud cock tenting the covers. Taunting him. He had to fight the urge to just reach out, consequences be damned. His mouth was practically watering at the thought of it. So close. It wasn't going down.

He thought about how his best friend - alright, the man he fervently desired, and to be honest, had done for a while - was lying, tense and uncomfortable and bloody hard beside him. How aroused he still so evidently was. He came to a decision, and opened his mouth before he had time to think it through. After all, bravery is a much more flattering word than stupidity, right? "You know," he said, back to nonchalant again, "it's no big deal. This sort of thing happened a lot in my army days. All those guys, close quarters, nobody batted an eyelid. One bloke would start and the rest would catch the urge like wildfire, one after another they'd be at it, til the whole room would be pumping away, loud as you like." No answer. _Oh hell_ , he thought, _in for a penny!_ "I mean, Imagine a bunch of horny guys all getting themselves off in a crowded barracks, side by side..."

Sherlock did imagine it, oh goodness, he could imagine that. With John Watson in the middle of it, dick out and sliding through his pumping fist, surrounded by a chorus of moaning soldiers - no. No, focus. "Thank you for trying to normalise the situation, John, but" and here, his voice sank to a desperate-sounding whisper "that really isn't helping."  

John sighed in frustration. He was going to have to do more than hint, wasn't he. "I'm just saying. I'm used to other guys getting off in my personal space. Doesn't especially bother me. You could - you know you could always - continue." He bit his lip. Was this a bit _too-far?_   Sherlock's knee-jerk reaction said perhaps it was - the man practically jack-knifed in his surprise. John waited for the backlash, the cold, sarcastic voice spitting scorn. But then he realised that he could hear his friend's breath speeding up. All of a sudden, the dark silence that stretched between them changed, John would swear it began to _tingle._ It sounded like - it sounded like Sherlock was  _considering_ it! John held his breath, afraid to move in case he broke this fragile thing he could feel blossoming in the heated air between them.

"What?" whispered Sherlock - and John knew then, he heard it, the hope, the agonising hope, behind the single word. He swallowed down any lingering embarrassment, guilt or sense of morality whispering at him to 'back off, Watson'. _Oh God, was he really going to? Yes - he bloody well was, he was going to do this!_ He lowered his voice even more, so that it slid soft and seductive past Sherlock's ear, a fervent whisper. "Do it, Sherlock. You need to do it, you know you do... Take your hand and put it back where it was before." He drew a shuddering breath, no way to hide how invested he was in this, not any more. "Touch yourself. Make yourself - you know. Make yourself - come." Sherlock groaned at the word, a low, vibrating moan of a noise and it was so intense it was obscene.

Sherlock's hand, his beautiful, long-fingered hand, slowly, so slowly, began the journey back to the promised land. Inch by inch, John's eager eyes followed its path. _Yes_ , _yes - he was going to do it! He was going to - oh God - Sherlock was touching himself - he was actually touching his rock hard cock in John's presence, knowing that John was watching!_ John burned with his own need, pulsing stark and hot in his belly, but he wouldn't move, not for anything, for fear of startling Sherlock, of ruining this moment for both of them. And for the life of him he couldn't look away!  

 


	3. Helping Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idle hands... devil makes work for 'em!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the cliffhanger.. and for the gap in posting! And thanks so much for the comments and kudos - they mean the world to me! Here's the final section...

_Yes, yes - he was going to do it! He was going to - oh God!_

John felt as if he was frozen between worlds. Sherlock, his mad, gorgeous flatmate Sherlock, was touching himself. Right beside him. _Oh sweet Jesus_ \- if he just stretched out his hand.. he could.. _no. No. Keep it locked down, Watson_. But oh - he could still watch!

John's eyes locked on Sherlock's hand as it trailed slowly up and then down the length of his hardness. His flatmate moaned, a low, vibrating, intense thing that hit John like a fist in the gut. John wished briefly (if fervently) that he had possessed the foresight to flick on the bedside lamp. The room was dim, but not pitch. He could make out Sherlock's hand moving - so slowly now - under the blankets, but not with any clarity. His imagination supplied the rest, but it wasn't enough, wasn't nearly enough, and when Sherlock's breath stuttered, John seriously thought he was going to lose it and paint the inside of his pants like a 15 year old boy.

John was wound so tightly, attuned to every hitch, every motion, senses hyper-aware, and barely breathing in his fervent desire not to  _miss_ any of this delicious show. And then the smell of him, of Sherlock, hit John like a punch to the gut, and all of a sudden it was too much - a half-strangled whimper slipped unbidden from John's lips.  _Shit, bugger, that wasn't meant to happen!_

Abruptly, Sherlock's hand faltered, then stopped. Silence lay thick as ice between them. _What?_  thought John,  _No, don't stop!_  For a second, perhaps two, they remained poised on the knife edge, before Sherlock huffed in frustration and rolled onto his side. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock! What's wrong? I'm sorry if I disturbed you. You don't have to stop!"

"This won't work, John. I'm - it's just not going to work. It was stupid of me - just.. just forget about it. Go back to sleep, John." 

 "No," John said, an edge of something like despair in his voice. "No, you were - it was, that was, ahh, it was good, Sherlock, very good even. I'm sorry I made that bloody stupid noise and interrupted you!" 

 "Leave it John," Sherlock mumbled, weary but not (not yet) irritated, letting out a frustrated little sigh. "I - it's too - it's too intimate, it feels - I can't. With you there I feel inhibited. I just. It feels - I want to, I really do, but I  _can't!_ I've - you know I've never - with anyone - and -"

And all of a sudden John understands. This situation was not something Sherlock was comfortable with.  _Hell, it's not something I should feel comfortable with, either. I'm his best friend after all, his not-gay friend and he's clearly not interested in me in that way. Bugger I may have just ruined everything, couldn't keep my damned mouth shut. Poor Sherlock - this is so far outside his comfort zone, it's just not funny._ _And yet - and yet, he took such a big step just now.. how much must he have wanted it, if he went that far, feeling this much at sea. Sherlock never admits to being anything less than in-control. Of everything. But he let me see him, like this. Maybe - maybe.. if I.._

John opened and closed his mouth several times before finding the courage to speak. When he did, his voice was such a curious mix of tender and hard, hopeful and desperate, intense and pleading. It came out quietly, almost a whisper, intimate as the darkness surrounding them, soft as a lover's touch. "Sherlock, what if I were to.. to help you? I - I wouldn't mind. Guys often helped each other out, in the army. I've done it before you know, helped a friend. I'd - I'd like to, for you. Tonight. Let me, Sherlock, Please?"

Beside him, Sherlock twitched and a half-involuntary "What?" slipped from his lips. "What - I, I don't understand, John. What - what do you _mean_?"

John heard the uncertainty, the confusion - but behind it he heard the fragile tendrils of something else, something that felt a bit like a newly fledged hope, wild and daring and free. It was clear that Sherlock had not been expecting this. But he hadn't rejected John outright. He was - he was _curious._ John couldn't see his friend's face in this light, but he could imagine those amazing eyes narrowing like a cat, trying to figure it out, the full force of that enormous intellect trained on him, ferreting out the secrets of his deepest heart. 

"Close your eyes, Sherlock, and answer me this - do you trust me?"

"Yes, John. With my life."

"Then let me help you. Let me _touch_ you." John's voice was the barest whisper, his breath faintly stirring Sherlock's curls as he spoke. The silence in the room was absolute. John felt the heavy thud of his own heart and for a brief second, considered all was lost, ruined, and he inwardly cursed his stupidity. But then - so quiet that John almost missed it, came the whispered response - just a single word. "Yes!" It was the only word John needed to hear. He rolled his body so that he was curled against the long line of Sherlock's back, only two thin layers of cloth between them, and slowly, gently, but very deliberately, moved his hand onto Sherlock's hip. Softly, he nuzzled his nose into the silky curls at the back of Sherlock's neck, delighting in the softness, the fragrance. He felt the other man shift reflexively, drawing in a breath, as if surprised. "Shhh," he whispered. "It's alright. I've got you. Just tell me if it gets too much, yeah?" 

John could feel the other man's breathing speed up, he couldn't tell if it was from nerves or excitement. _Probably both,_ he thought, realising from Sherlock's earlier words that he would not be used to being touched in this way. John ground his teeth and tried his best to rein in his own excitement. He knew, somehow, that he would only get one shot at this. He mustn't scare Sherlock off. There would be no second chance.  _Go Slowly_ , his heart whispered,  _make this good for him._ And with that, brave Captain Watson stopped thinking and simply allowed his hand to move under the waistband of Sherlock's expensive pants, down and down and - finally! finally! - encase the rigid silk of Sherlock's heat within his fist. 

***

Sherlock was sure heart must be about to implode, must be beating faster than a hummingbird's wings, a fluttering, living thing fighting to break free from his chest. He couldn't breathe, couldn't believe John had just offered to - no, he must be mistaken. _John wouldn't do that - couldn't  - must have misheard him- he.. he.. oh GOD he's so close behind me, I can feel, it can't be, can it?_  But it was, it was John's beautiful hardness pushing proudly against him, making him want to squirm, making him think delicious things. And then he felt the delightful sensation of John's mouth - his _mouth -_ on the back of Sherlock's neck, seeking, snuffling, warm and _wet_  and it was so divine it should be a  _sin_ and - _oh his hand is right there, Jesus, yes, right there, there! Oh, oh, OH._ And suddenly Sherlock felt his whole world collapse down to this tiny point of contact, of skin on skin and John's hand on his shaft and there was nothing ever like this and nothing to compare to it and no way to ever  _know_ how beautiful it was. John's hand.  _John's_ hand. His John's. _His_. 

The moan Sherlock could not repress was deep and dark and aching, like something feral let lose upon the world. The sensation of John's hand as it moved was better than anything he could have imagined. He couldn't help but move with it, pushing into John's fist, holding him just right, with exactly the right amount of pressure. John's small but so-strong fingers seemed just the right size to form a perfect circle around his throbbing cock. Oh, why had he waited so long to do this, he could happily do this _forever!_

When John began to twist his wrist at the end of each upstroke, Sherlock thought he would surely _die_ of pleasure. Suddenly, he wanted more, needed more. With a sense of urgency, he began to push against John in time to the rhythm this amazing man had set, twisting his hips just a little on each thrust grinding against that gloriously hard thing he could feel pushing against the fabric of his pants. _Oh God,_ he thought, _I'm so close, I have to have more. More of John Watson. This might be my only chance - Oh God, I'm not going to last._ He placed his hand over John's, stilling it just long enough to pull down his pants, dragging them past his knees and kicking them off in an agony of frustration. Free now, he ground back again, feeling his friend's answering thrust for just a moment, before reaching behind and tugging imperiously at the very edge of John's pants, not sure if he was allowed to ask this, not knowing the words, just knowing he _needed_ to feel John naked behind him too. He felt John's breath hitch, felt his heart beat a little faster, and Sherlock knew in that moment that _John wanted this too!_

Slowly, he felt John edge his pants off, his rock-hard cock springing free. "Is this - is this ok?" Sherlock heard him whisper, and there was such tenderness in that voice, he almost couldn't bear it! "Yes," Sherlock answered. "Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. I need to  _feel_ you John." He could tell the effect those words had on his friend - now more than friend? - in the way his body twitched against him. "We have no supplies, Sherlock," came the voice, and Sherlock recognised the tone of forced calm, Captain Watson, barely holding himself in check. "I can't - we can't do  _everything_. Not this time..." The promise hung in the air, like perfume, like hope.  _That there might be a next time!_   _  
_

"I know," Sherlock said, "I know we can't - I - I don't think I'm ready for that, precisely, John. But - I want to feel you, on my skin, moving against me!" And that was all John needed to hear, apparently, as he began to move again with renewed fervour, breath speeding up, fingers back to their silky slide up and down Sherlock's erection as if they always belonged there. Sherlock began to move with him, meeting him thrust for thrust, pre-come slicking their way as the heat began to build and build between them. He felt almost out of his mind with pleasure, beyond feeling, beyond thought, as he answered the call of his body, for once handing his transport the reins. 

"Sherlock," John called out, voice stuttering as his hips started to move erratically, and the surge of his own pleasure drew near. "I'm - I'm so close, Sherlock. You said you needed - other stimulation - do you.. do you need me to..? I can use my fingers - I could.." _Oh!_ Sherlock trembled at the thought, John's hands, his fingers,  _there,_ entering him, claiming, opening him up, even the thought was unbearably sexy! Suddenly, the image was too much, Sherlock let out a moan that must have let the whole floor know what they were doing, and began to shudder and twitch as wave after wave of ecstasy overwhelmed him, spurting thick ropes onto the sheet below. And then John was moaning with him, thrusting harder and harder between his cheeks until Sherlock felt him go rigid and then the hot wet feeling of his ejaculate on his arse, his lower back, as John shuddered through his own release, heart hammering and joy humming beneath his skin.  _Perfect!_

It took longer than Sherlock would have imagined for his heart rate to return to normal, his breathing to even out. He felt so safe and warm and  _held_ in the circle of his-John's arms. Ridiculous to feel so surrounded, since Sherlock was larger, taller, there was no way John could make him feel so small. So cherished.  _And yet he did. He does!_ Sherlock decided never to leave John's arms again. 

Except - except John began to move -  _Oh no, don't - don't let him regret this. Please. Please!_ Sherlock threw his arm over his head, silently despairing, as John moved to the en-suite. And then - oh - oh! Suddenly he was back, with a warm flannel. He was cleaning Sherlock's back, his belly, so tenderly. And sliding back into the warm bed behind him, and - was that snuggling? Yes - definitely snuggling, oh now  _nice._ Sherlock inched back into the warm press of John's lovely body, placing his arm over John's as it sat snug upon his waist.

"This alright?" muttered John, nuzzling gently.

"Yes. Perfect!" Sherlock answered, squeezing gently on John's arm. 

And softly, softly, they slipped into slumber, each wrapped in the other. And that's how morning found them. Entwined.

*** 

 

 

 

 

 


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